Angel of the Abyss
by Mary the Canary
Summary: What if Christine had not kissed Erik, the kiss that taught him the meaning of true love? Based off the musical and elements of Leroux's novel.
1. Chapter 1

" _You try my patience. Make your choice."_

My stomach quivered beneath the tightly-corseted wedding dress as his eyes bore into mine, demanding me to make a choice. Behind him, I could hear Raoul's ragged gasps for air, growing more and more laborious as each breath allowed the rope to further chafe his neck.

I sharply inhaled the damp, lakewater air, trying to bottle my bubbling hysteria. First there was Don Juan...then falling from the stage...then being dragged to this lair, his lair, before being forced into this wedding dress...and now Raoul's life was in my hands. The corset made it difficult to breathe, and my head began to swim.

However, despite my cloudy, lightheaded state, one thing shone clear: I couldn't let Raoul die.

"Yes," I said quietly, closing my eyes to quickly regain myself. I swallowed thickly and forced myself to meet his gaze. "Yes, I will stay with you if you let him go."

The angel—if I could even call him that—held his grip on the rope for another moment, his gaze unwavering, before loosening his grip ever so slightly. He nodded stoically, his prior mania vanished.

"As you wish," he responded. He let go of the rope, and behind him, Raoul immediately choked for air as the rope around his neck loosened.

"Christine, don't agree to this!" Raoul yelled once his lungs filled, his terrified eyes shooting straight to my heart. My lips parted, my mind racing for something reassuring to say, when the angel was all of a sudden beside me.

"Silence," he warned darkly. "She saved your life. Now leave." Turning to me, he said: "We leave now, Christine."

Tears stung in my eyes as I faced Raoul, my light, my childhood friend, my protector, as he struggled against the rope. I bit my lip to restrain the tears that threatened to fall, turning to the angel.

"Please, let me say goodbye to him," I begged quietly, my voice hoarse. "Let me say goodbye, and I will give you no trouble."

His brows furrowed in suspicion, studying me for a moment. "You have one minute." He abruptly turned away, facing the ornate and lavish lair.

This was all the privacy I knew I could ask for. I rushed to Raoul, stepping into the lake and dragging my feet and the ever-increasingly heavy wedding dress to where he was untying the last the rope from himself. Angry red bruises were beginning to form in rings where rope chafed against skin, and once he was free, he splashed across the lake to cross the distance between us, pulling me into a desperate embrace.

"Christine, what have you done?" he whispered almost angrily into my ear, his hot breath warming my cheek against the cold damp air.

I shook my head, holding him close, savoring the feel of him. His strong arms, his scent, his beating heart against mine.

"You would do the same for me," I whispered back to him. I glanced fearfully at the angel, who was still turned away from us, before leaning closer to Raoul and continuing. "As long we are both alive, there is a chance that we could find together again. But that chance would be impossible if you were dead."

Raoul's hand came up to cup my face, his thumb softly caressing my cheek. His gaze was dark. "There is no way I am letting that monster have you."

"Then find me, Raoul," I whispered almost silently. "I'll do whatever I can to escape, I promise, and we will be together soon."

At that the angel turned around. "It is time to leave. Christine."

Squeezing Raoul's hand one last time, our eyes met with one shared message. That we loved each other, and that we would find each other again.

"You may take the boat," the angel said to Raoul, a bitter politeness in his tone. "It will take you to Rue Scribe, once you climb the ladder at the end." Raoul made no move to leave, and the angel quickly added: "If you want no harm to come to her, you will leave now."

Raoul met the angel's gaze with a fury I had never seen in him before. My hands clenched as I willed him to do nothing that would get himself killed by the unstable, dangerous man beside me.

Raoul's gaze flickered to mine one last time, deliberating, before turning to the wooden boat. He climbed into the boat, lighting an unlit lantern with a matchstick, and then took a seat, taking both oars in his hands. Here, he seemed to pause. _Look back,_ I willed with my heart. But whether for my benefit or for his own, he didn't. I watched as he rowed himself further and further away from me, the oars creating a gentle splashing sound with each rotation. Finally, he turned the corner, and he was gone. I watched until the black, rippling waters no longer reflected his light.

At once, the angel left my side. "We leave in ten minutes," he called out over his shoulder.

My eyes couldn't leave the abominable lake that took Raoul away from me. " _Run,"_ I thought to myself, but I shook my head; this was his game, his lair, and I probably wouldn't make it as far as a step before being caught.

Dread began to curl in the pit of my stomach as the full realization of my choice hit me. The long-restrained tears began to stream down my cheeks as I buckled over, cradling myself in my arms as silent sobs began to wrack my body. I had sold myself to this angel—an angel of hell, I now knew—for the man I loved, but it did not revoke the terror of what was to come as a result for me.

A comforting melody chimed through the air. Sniffling, I shifted my head to find a wooden monkey music box behind me. It was holding two cymbols in its hands, clapping them together as it played a tune that was vaguely familiar. Around it, the place was alight with flickering candles, held up by gilded cherubims. Something familiar sat next to the monkey, and, standing up on trembling legs, I walked over to it.

It was the score and libretto for "Don Juan Triumphant". I fingered the leather binding, overwhelmed by all that had happened in only several hours time. Tucking the music beneath my arm, I seated myself on a black velvet chair and closed my eyes, resting my leaden head against my palms as a heavy wooziness passed through me.

The ear-splitting sound of shattering glass jerked me awake. My eyes flew open, and I looked up to find the remains of a shattered mirror—the gilded edges of said mirror eerily identical to my own dressing room mirror—and him, standing where the mirror once was. The shattered glass scattered beneath his feet reflected the candlelight and red velvet curtains like a macabre stained-glass window.

"Christine," the melodious tenor voice of my dreams called out to me. A new white mask obscured the twisted flesh beneath it, his new change of suit impeccably fit and clean. He was carrying a black leather suitcase in one hand and a candlestick in another. Tossing the candlestick aside, he extended a black-gloved hand towards me. "Come."

I stood on trembling legs, my head throbbing and stomach roiling. Overwhelmed, exhausted, and defeated, I yielded and slowly stepped towards him. Closing the gap between us, I gently placed my hand in his.

With one final glance at me, he turned around, and pulled me with him into the darkness beyond the mirror.

—-—-—-—

 **Thank you fellow phans for to reading this story! As fellow writers know, reviews are much appreciated, and I'd love to hear your thoughts. Stay tuned for chapter 2, and I hope you all have a lovely day!**


	2. Chapter 2

The sound of crunched glass sparkled through the air as we stepped through the broken mirror frame, and I took my next few steps as delicately as I could; how could I escape if shards of glass cut into my feet, rendering me unable to walk? _Perhaps he's hoping that will happen_ the paranoid voice within whispered, and I shuddered.

The thought was quieted by a rustling of fabric. I whirled around in time to see a red velvet curtain drape over the mirror, and a moment later, we were enveloped in complete darkness.

I froze where I stood.

"Walk, Christine," his smooth tenor voice warned sternly. He gripped my hand tighter.

"I can't see where I'm going," I replied through clenched teeth, eyes darting everywhere, trying to adjust to the darkness. I might as well have been blind.

Suddenly, two golden orbs shone from just a meter or two away. A scream started to bubble in my throat when a cold hand clamped over my mouth. "Silence—they're just my eyes. Hurry now."

His golden eyes disappeared—he was facing away from me, I assumed—and he removed his hand from my face. My stomach roiled at the cold, clammy memory, and my conviction to escape renewed doubly.

Though I was weary. I was so, so weary.

So when he took a step forward, gripping my hand, I gave up and followed.

-—-—-

The next few hours were a blur as I drifted in and out of a state of unconsciousness and sleep. We walked for what seemed like hours in perpetual darkness, wooden planks creaking below our feet with each step we took, and cold, damp air pressing into us. Oh, I'd never been more weary in my life...

I was all of a sudden awoken by a jolt on a warm, bumpy object—a horse, the warm hair pressed up against my cheek told me, though my eyes were too leaden to open. It was easier to breathe, and the air was frigid—perhaps we were outdoors. I A thick cloak draped around me before I drifted off to sleep once more.

Again I woke, but this time, all had become still. Reluctantly, I opened my bleary eyes.

It was as if I were in a dream. Everything was covered in a foggy haze, and the air was sharp and cold. Trees stretched as far as the eye could see, black and dense and climbing higher and higher to the heavens until the sky disappeared, save for a tiny circle of star-dotted darkness at that top.

My gaze fell downward, and below the circle of sky was a quaint cottage, wooden and simple, with smoke puffing from the chimney. It looked like a cottage out of the storybooks Raoul and I read as children, except that this was real.

"Christine, are you awake?" the one person who could be asking that question asked. My eyelids fluttered shut, and I feigned sleep. I didn't want to talk to him, and I was, after all, so, so tired...

The gentlest of sighs softened the air, before a gloved hand wrapped around my waist, and another against my legs. At this I began to squirm, and "woke up".

It was still dark, and his golden eyes shone eerily and unnaturally against the stillness of the night. Instantly, I bolted upright, and he retracted his hands from my side.

Wordlessly, he offered his hand, which I figured was about as little touch as I could ask for; after all, this horse—soft, midnight black, and warm—was quite tall.

He placed his other hand on my arm as I hoisted a leg over the horse's side, jumping down. The ground beneath me was soft and springy—grass! How I'd missed grass; there was so little greenery at the opera, despite the many pungent paint sets depicting nature on stage, and seldom were we young girls allowed to go out.

Yet, my excitement at being in nature paled to the eerily unnatural silence that filled my ears. There was no chatter, no shuffling, no steam trams or carriages rolling by...all was quiet.

We were alone. We were horribly, completely alone.

My nerves hummed and silent questions buzzed as he led me to the idyllic house—what was within? Where was I? How far away were we from Paris? What was he going to do to me?

He released my hand as we reached the door, removing a golden key from his pocket. Once he did, he opened the door, stepped aside, and gestured for me to enter first. A normal, gentlemanly act.

I stepped inside the cottage, and gasped in surprise, my eyes widening before I could think. This was no cottage; despite its simple façade, the inside was fashioned like a castle, or at least, what I imagined a castle to look like. A smooth, mahogany table adorned with a porcelain vase of red roses sat upon an impossibly shiny wooden floor, with two deep red velvet chairs and one velvet settee surrounding it on three sides. On the fourth side was a fireplace, the most extraordinarily beautiful fireplace I had ever seen. It was made of marble, or some stone—I couldn't tell in this light—and little columns held up the mantle, columns that were reminiscent of Ancient Grecian pillars. On the fireplace's mantle were ornaments that looked to be worth millions of francs; a pearly egg stood out most of all, sitting on legs of gold and bejeweled with rubies; what was its story?

Though most majestic of all was the intimidating, gold-and-crystal chandelier that hung above the room.

In the blink of an eye, the chandelier came to life, dazzling, unnaturally bright; I tripped backward, into _him_. A scream tore through my throat.

He caught me just before I hit the ground. "What was that?" I finally asked, panicked, shielding my eyes from the sun-bright crystal light.

He lifted me to my feet, though I did most of the work by myself. "It's electricity," he answered simply, and I vaguely remembered hearing something about it at the opera house, rumors that there was a new kind of lighting that would soon replace candlelight, that would entirely make candles a thing of the past, though it was quite expensive. I'd never witnessed electricity before, though.

"See?" he continued, and I faced him to find a square in the wall with a smaller square inside it, or rather, protruding out of it. "It's called a switch. If you move it up, the light comes on, but if you move it down—"—he did so, and the room went dark again—"the lights go out."

"Interesting," I murmured, actually fascinated. That was, until I heard the sound of locking bolts, and I turned to see him, back to me, locking the door.

Was he locking the door so outsiders couldn't come in, or so insiders couldn't leave? Apprehension misted my mind and filled my belly once more.

Still facing away from me, his hands grew still. I stood expectant, awaiting his guidance and instructions yet also not wanting them. My fingers fidgeted with the frills of the wedding dress.

After a long pause, he asked: "Shall I escort you to your room?"

I nodded carefully, but when he offered his arm, I shook my head; I was weary, but determined not to be dependent on him.

He led me to a wooden, spiral staircase, the railing which had delicate, iron-wrought swirls beneath it, a red velvet runner lining the stairs.

The spiral staircase made me dizzy, and I had to stop every several steps or so to catch may breath; still, I was determined to make it to the top alone, and depended heavily on the railing.

Finally, we reached the top. There was a small hallway, again lined with red velvet, with intricately-carved golden sconces on the walls; however, instead of being topped off with candles, they were dimly glowing with glass bulbs inside. _Electricity_.

He led me to the room on my left. "This will be your room," he said, and again, he opened the door, gesturing for me to follow.

Unlike the rest of the house, this room had a quainter feel, though it suited my tastes exactly, as if it were designed for me. The walls were adorned with a cream-colored wallpaper, decorated with delicate blue roses, complete with their green stems and dainty thorns.

To the side of the room was a mahogany desk, an ink well, and some pens neatly lined up next to it. A blue flowered lamp—a kerosene lamp, I saw with familiarity and ease—sat atop the desk, with a bottle of kerosene to the side.

And finally, in the middle of the room, was a bed—a bed large enough to fit half of the girls in the ballet de corps. The frame was again made of mahogany, lifted off the ground with short, sturdy legs, though the legs traveled upwards and became four pillars that extended to the ceiling, holding up a delicate, frothy, cream-colored canopy. The sheets and coverlet matched the wall print, cream-colored, and with delicate blue roses.

On the right and left side of the room were two closed doors.

"You have your own wardrobe and water closet," he said, as if reading my mind.

I furtively snuck a glance at him. He seemed calmer now, relaxed, unlike the frenzied and murderous man I had been with hours earlier. _The frenzied and murderous man who almost killed Raoul._ My heart hardened once more, willing myself to not let the beauty of the place affect my thoughts. While I was glad to not be locked up in some cold, dark prison cell, a beautiful prison was a prison all the same.

"Should you ever be in need of anything, do not hesitate to let me know," he continued. _A very limited anything, no doubt._

Then, before I could comprehend what he was doing, he stepped out of the room and closed the door in one swift motion.

My hands instantly reached for the knob, but I was too late; from outside of the room, I could hear bolts locking the door into place.

I twisted the doorknob several times. "Let me go! Let me out!" I cried out in a sudden desperation. I twisted the doorknob again. The door still wouldn't budge.

"Goodnight, Christine," he said quietly, firmly, and his footfalls faded as he walked away.

And that's when I collapsed and began to cry. Not pretty, delicate cries, but heart-wrenching, heaving sobs: I thought I was strong, possibly even clever enough to escape, but who was I kidding? I was imprisoned by a mastermind; no doubt he had planned every detail of this sick ultimatum flawlessly, making escape impossible for me.

What did he want from me? The memory of his hands at my side, an innocent touch, made my insides heave, but I was already choking on sobs, and my stomach was empty.

And tight, so tight. Unceremoniously, I wiped my eyes and nose on the sleeves of the wedding dress; it was a beautiful dress, to be sure, but I would never wear it again. Fingers shaking, I undid the corset, until finally, it was unfastened and I could breathe.

I sat on the cold wooden floor for a few minutes, breathing, my head rushing as oxygen finally reached its destination. Then, slowly, I began to release the filthy dress from my body.

In the silence of the night, a single _ping_ caught my attention. I looked down, and, glowing in the rectangular patch of moonlight offered by the window, a golden button rolled along before falling on its side.

Shakily, I reached forward for it. It was a rather large button, carved with a golden insignia that I would recognize anywhere: the DeChangy family coat of arms.

 _Raoul_.

I clasped the button in my hands and brought it to my lips. Though he wasn't here, having a piece of him with me was comforting, encouraging. A reminder that I had something something to fight for, something worth escaping for, regardless of the price.

A reminder of what _he'd_ taken away from me.

Stepping out of the wedding dress, I removed the corset and everything else until I was wearing only my chemise.

Clutching the button, I walked over to the bed and pulled the coverlet aside, sliding beneath the sheets. I couldn't help but sigh. This was by far the softest, warmest bed I'd ever been in; much preferable to the stale cots we slept in at the opera house.

With the soft warmth of the bed enveloping me, Raoul's button burning in my hand, and sleep creeping ever-closer, I made a promise to myself.

I would not give up. I would rest well and stay alert, doing whatever I needed to do to survive, until I finally, I could escape.

Sleep welcomed me with open arms and I fell, at once unconscious.

-—-—-—

 **Thank you for reading chapter 2! This story took a long hiatus as some personal life issues bubbled up, though things are thankfully starting to calm down, and I look forward to finishing this story as well as to rejoining the phan community. As always, reviews are greatly appreciated, and I hope you all have a lovely day! :)**


	3. Chapter 3

_Thump. Thump. Thump._

Something was not right. Gingerly, without opening my eyes, I tilted my pounding head to its other side—and gasped as a sharp, stabbing pain split through my head.

Only it wasn't just my head—the searing, stabbing soreness was in my limbs, my throat, my chest.

Though worst of all, it had burned its way into my heart. I inhaled sharply to lighten my lungs, only to be stabbed with an even sharper pang.

And warm, it was too warm. In one movement, I bolted upright, eyes flinging open with the motion.

The rapidity of the movement made my head swim and grow dizzy; white stars blurred my vision and I began to feel nauseous.

Somewhere in the sea of stars and churning nausea, a voice rang out, like a lifeboat in a storm.

"Relax, Christine. Lie down, and drink this."

My eyes fluttered shut and I obeyed, my flushed cheeks meeting the too-warm pillow once more.

A cool hand touched my cheek, and amidst the heat, it felt blissful. I sighed. Perhaps I had taken ill, and Madame Giry was taking care of me...if I was not ill, she would have been chiding me about sleeping in, as she had done with Meg and I so many times over the years. Well, more with Meg, who would beg me to fein illness with her lest she get in trouble all alone...

Oh no.

Meg.

The ballet corps.

The Palais Garnier opera house.

The opera—Don Juan Triumphant.

Last night.

 _Him._

And at once, I knew who was beside me.

Resigned, my eyelids gingerly lifted to reveal the sight I knew they would see.

I'd never seen him like this before. Though he was impeccably dressed in his black suit, starched white dress shirt, and formal black tie, the cloak was gone, and the morning light peeking out from behind the blue-flowered window curtains shone strangely on him—a creature of the night in broad daylight. His features were sharper, more real, more...human.

It was still hard to believe that he was human.

"Drink this," he repeated, pulling me out of my thoughts and back to my senses. My head throbbed painfully as I turned away from him. I would be foolish to take anything he offered me.

He crossed to the other side of the bed in a fluid motion, towering over me. "You're ill, Christine," he said gently, the sound lulling my eyes shut. "This will make the pain go away."

"As would death," I murmured without thinking. Well, it wasn't quite that I wasn't thinking; my mind kept flashing back to that moment in the lair when he lamented his having been denied "the joys of the flesh".

I'd heard about potions the older girls in the ballet corps would receive from their lovers to protect them from conceiving a child, and had an innate, instinctual fear that this was the potion at hand. A feeling that made my heart burn from pounding too fast, that made my stomach squeeze.

He said nothing. His face remained stoic, save for a momentary twitch—pain?

He set the opaque glass he held down on the wooden nightstand beside me. "I will leave this for you here, then." There was a pause. "It will help with the nausea."

And he left the room.

I sat there, unmoving, for a few minutes. Maybe he thought I'd be silly enough to drink it, and then come back to...

Though I was thirsty, so thirsty. Mercifully, there was a water pitcher on the nightstand, but again, I froze. Could I trust it was water? If I didn't drink, I'd be dead, but I did drink, and the water contained what I thought it might, I might as well be dead...

I decided against drinking, for fear of my virtue and safety. My leaden head fell back against the pillow, and darkness took over.

-—-—

I'm not exactly sure how much time passed, but the pounding in my head woke me up. It was excruciating. It was unbearable.

I tried swallowing—but couldn't. My mouth was sandpaper dry, and I choked on the nothingness there.

Dizzy, shaking, sweating, and nauseous, I gently pushed myself up.

He wasn't there, mercifully. But the small opaque glass and water pitcher were.

Desperately thirsty, I reached over and grabbed the blue china water pitcher with trembling hands. There was no water glass, save for the opaque glass with the unknown substance, so I brought the pitcher up to my lips ("like a heathen", Mrs. Giry would say).

Despite the burning thirst, I had to remind myself to stop. One sip, then I'd wait. If it tasted strange, I'd spit it out. If it didn't, I'd wait for the effects.

I brought the pitcher up to my lips, and delicately took a sip. It tasted pure, unadulterated. Blissful.

Water, blessed, holy water descended upon my burning throat like a waterfall. And I couldn't stop—I needed water, I needed it desperately, more than I'd ever needed anything in my life. I drank the entire pitcher to the last drop.

My thirst quenched, I lay down once more against the fluffy white pillows, trying not to focus on the pain nor my lack of self control nor of what horrors I'd just made myself vulnerable to.

-—-—-—

 _Shaking, sweating, shivering._

I was hydrated enough to sweat, and my mouth was no longer dry, but every other pain in my body had intensified. The hammer in my head pounded mercilessly, my throat was thick and swollen, and the swirling nausea wouldn't rest.

I slowly tilted my head to gaze at the wooden nightstand. I could no longer care about the risk; the opaque glass promised freedom from this torment. Besides, the water had proved to be harmless.

With a shaking hand, my fingers clasped the glass and brought it to my nose. Raoul's insignia was imprinted on my other palm from clutching his button so tight.

The contents of the glass smelled strange, intense, but quite nice: very herbal, almost like peppermint. I didn't know much about herbs, but it definitely had a pungent, medicinal scent.

Cool mint wafted through the air, promising to cool the burning inferno that was my body.

I took one sip, and cringed. The thick liquid was both sweet and bitter at once. Perhaps it was honey, masking a bitter herb.

But the moment it trailed down my throat, I couldn't help but sigh. The relief was instantaneous—cool, soothing, and healing.

Puckering my lips, I gulped the rest of the glass in one mouthful.

A blissful coolness radiated through my body as the liquid traveled down my throat.

Deeply sighing, I fell back onto the pillows once more.

-—-—-—-

"Mademoiselle," an unfamiliar voice whispered. "Mademoiselle?"

My eyes cracked open the slightest bit, then widened at the sight before me.

An elderly woman, with a soft, wrinkled face, kind blue eyes, and graying blonde hair stood before me. She wore a simple, plain green dress, with a white apron tied about her waist. In her hands was a silver tray, a bowl of steaming soup upon it.

As if on cue, my stomach rumbled loudly. When was the last time I'd eaten?

"Who are you?" I asked, the fog of sleep and illness overpowering my usually polite and mannered self.

"I hope to be your friend," she said with a gentle smile. She set the tray down on the wooden nightstand beside me. "But you can call me Nathalie. There's so much I'd love to ask you and share with you, but first, you must get well."

She picked up the blue pitcher, and looked inside at the empty contents. "I'll be back with some more water. In the meantime, eat some soup, cherie."

She bowed—how friendly she was for a servant, if she was one, and how strange it was for someone to be serving me!—but I couldn't help but smile back in spite of my confusion. Her warmth and energy reminded me of Meg.

Meg. My heart squeezed at the thought of my adorable, wild friend, but I turned my thoughts from Meg to the soup.

It smelled delicious; I brought the tray to my lap, and stirred the contents. There were carrots, noodles, and chicken, and some green herbs I didn't recognize. Ravenous, I drank the straight from the bowl. The soup was long gone before Nathalie returned with the water pitcher a couple minutes later.

"My my, dear! You must have been quite hungry! Do you want more soup?" she asked.

I smiled, the warmth of the soup and her kindness touching my smile. "No thank you, Nathalie. This was lovely," I responded.

"Well, here's more water, if you get thirsty again, and a fresh glass." She set the pitcher on the nightstand. "I also brought some cool rags for your forehead, in case your fever returns. How are you feeling?"

I assessed myself. I was feeling tender, and just slightly nauseous from eating so much so fast, but I felt otherwise...healed.

The herbal concoction had really worked.

"I feel much recovered," I responded, relaxing. "This soup is delicious. Did you make it?"

"Indeed, I did, cherie," she responded, taking a seat at the edge of my bed. I could feel the dip where she sat. "It does the trick every time for fevers like yours. Just another bout of rest, and I'm sure you'll be good as new."

"Thank you," I whispered, deeply grateful yet suddenly drained. There was so much I wanted to ask her, but my eyelids were already drooping...

"You better get that rest now; I'll be back to check on you."

I smiled as a warm, peaceful drowsiness descended upon me, and I heard the door to my room close with a gentle "click". It was time to sleep.

But the part of my mind that was awake begged the question: who was she, and how did she get here? Was she a fellow victim, like I? Could I trust her, or was she here to gain my trust on purpose?

Would she help me escape from this place?

-—-—-—

 **Thank you for reading my story, dear readers! I'd like to extend a special "thank you!" to Qtkittee, who encouraged me to keep writing this story. I hope you all have a lovely day, and that your souls take you where you long to be. :) Cheers!**


	4. Chapter 4

The rosy rays of dawn filled the room with a soft, gentle glow when I next came to. The warm light against the blue-flowered curtains reminded me of a fairytale.

In the early hours of the morning, I dreamily imagined that I was in such a fairytale. I was playing the part of a young maiden, only seventeen, trapped in a deceptively charming cottage by an evil witch. Would I be able to break free from the spell cast upon me, or would I remain trapped here, forever? At this part in the opera, if it were an opera, I would sing a forlorn aria of uncertainty and feeble hope.

Imagination or reality; which was which?

I felt better. There was a slight pounding in my head, and I felt weak from both exertion and lack of exertion. However, the misery of the illness was gone, leaving me with a hollow emptiness. What was I to do now?

Lifting myself off the fluffy bed, my bare toes found the chilly wooden floor. I recoiled, then replanted my feet firmly on the floor in decision. I had needs to attend to in the watercloset.

The watercloset was truly a sight to behold. There was a bathtub of porcelain, sitting on four little curved legs, and a silver spout through which water appeared, I imagined. Though I'd yet to use the bath, I could see dials signaling temperature. What a luxury! At the opera, we had to heat bathwater over a stove for it to be warm. The porcelain looked too pure to touch compared to the basins we used.

The rest of the water closet contained a porcelain watercloset with a silver handle flush, a porcelain sink, a wide rectangular mirror hanging over the sink and—best of all—three electricity bulbs over said mirror. There were also a variety of perfumed soaps and bottles lining the sink.

I was suddenly aware of how grimy I felt; yes, a bath would be lovely.

I stepped toward the bath, about to touch the crystal dial, when a knock rang through the room.

"Good morning, Mademoiselle!" a gentle voice called. "May I come in?"

"Yes," I croaked, my hand automatically flying up to my throat. It'd been a while since I'd spoken or sung, and I sounded as such. If only the angel knew how I was neglecting my voice...

Nathalie entered, this time in a soft, pale-blue dress underneath her white apron. Her blonde, grayed hair was neatly wrapped up in a bun, with a little white daisy peeking out from behind her ear. She smiled brightly.

"How are you feeling this morning? It's good to see you walking about."

I couldn't help but smile in return. She had an aura of unending kindness. "I feel so much better," I answered gratefully, with less croak.

"I'm glad to hear that's the case," she said, stepping into the watercloset and turning on the electricity. The room was suddenly alight. I didn't think it was something I could ever get used to. "I was wondering if you'd like to bathe, and maybe get dressed, now that you're awake."

I gestured to the bathtub. "I'd very much like that, though I've never used a bathtub like this with dials before."

"Oh, it's simple!" she said, stepping towards the bath. She explained how the dials worked, and showed me how to drain the tub with the silver plug at the bottom after bathing.

"May I help you get undressed?" she asked. She was eager and so full of life. Her resemblance to Meg once more squeezed my heart.

I lifted my arms above my head, still in a daze, like a child. "Used to getting undressed now, are we?" she laughed with a wink. Then she paused, abruptly. "Oh, I didn't mean anything..."

"No, it's alright," I said with an embarrassed smile, though I blushed at her teasing. "It's simply that, I'm used to getting undressed in front of other women... I work in a theatre." It was strange to be waited upon, but helping and being helped by other girls with costume changes was second nature to me.

"So I've been told," she said. "Monsieur has told us a bit of your musical accomplishments."

"Monsieur?" I asked, my heartbeat quickening ever-so-slightly.

"Yes! Though he hasn't said much else about you..."

This was the perfect opportunity to ask questions.

"Do you work for him?" I asked nonchalantly.

"Yes, my husband and I work here together. We've never been happier," she said with a gentle smile. My chemise fell to the floor, and I was left in my bare undergarments. She took a hairbrush from next to the sink and stepped behind me, gently taking my hair in her hands.

"How long have you been working for him?" I asked. I was surprised by her openness. I'd have expected him to terrorize his servants the way he terrorized the opera staff.

"Oh, a little while now... three years or so? Except when Monsieur is in, my husband and I have the place to ourselves. We had a son, but we haven't heard from him in years." She sighed, continuing to brush my hair in long strokes. "We lived just outside of Paris, where I worked as a seamstress, and my husband as a valet. A fire burned down most of the homes in our neighborhood, and we had nowhere to go. My husband and I walked the streets with what little we had, looking for a new home, when we met Monsieur. He offered us to live with him for a generous price, and it's nice here, a simple, quiet existence. We built this place, he, my husband, and I. It's our home now, too," she said fondly.

My hair was well brushed, and she reached over to turn the dial. Immediately, warm water sprang forth from the spout, steam rising from the water.

"Now I'd like to know a bit about you, too," she said with a conspiratorial wink. "Monsieur seems to be quite taken with you. Do I sense an engagement in the near future?"

The very thought! The blood drained from my face, and I stared at her, horrified.

Her eyes widened at my response, and she shook her head as if she were sorry she'd asked. "Oh—forgive me," she responded hastily. "I was just so happy to think that he'd finally found someone. I've almost come to regard him as a son, you know, albeit one who is difficult to get to know. Though I understand these things take time, chérie. It took my husband several years to win me over." A dreamy aura blossomed across her face as she touched the flower in her hair, and she looked like a young girl in the throes of love.

It made me think of Raoul, and suddenly, I wanted to cry. Nathalie regarded me gently. She seemed to pause before choosing her next words.

"I don't entirely understand what it is that you and Monsieur share, besides music. But I can assure you that he is a good man. He has been kind to my husband and I in our advancing years, and beyond generous with us. I'm sure he has every good intention for you."

I wanted to ask if she'd been paid to say all this. Maybe there was some way he was listening into the conversation? I glanced nervously at the mirror. The mirror…

"Well, the bath is ready," she said, turning off the dial. Thick, clean steam curled about the air, enticing me. "You have a number of dresses awaiting you in your closet after your bath. Monsieur said that he'd like to see you today."

See him? Today?

"Thank you, Nathalie," I said quietly. I could hardly think.

"My pleasure, Mademoiselle," she said, returning to formality, before stepping out of the room and closing the door.

Beside me, the bathtub beckoned me with warmth. I gently placed a toe in the water, causing a tiny ripple to spread over the smooth surface. It was warm, perfectly warm. Slowly, I eased the rest of myself inside the bath, undergarments and all, sinking into the heat. It was bliss, unadulterated bliss. I sighed with contentment.

But my mind was provoked; there were things to think about. This woman, for whatever reason, spoke of the "Monsieur" on good terms. Was she coerced into doing so, or did she believe it? I thought of the gentle earnestly in her eyes. No, she believed it.

How little she knew of what I knew.

Then again, how little I might know of what she knows. Now that was a thought.

Questions enveloped my mind as the water enveloped my stiff limbs. What was happening? Yesterday, I was so sure of everything. He was my enemy, one I had to escape from. Yet, whether real or not, this woman regarded him with fondness, and spoke of his kindness.

Was there more to him than I knew? Despite the myriad of feelings I had regarding him, a reluctant blossom of curiosity arose within me. Maybe there was more to this whole situation, to him, than I was aware of.

Nathalie said that he'd wanted to meet me. The thought filled my belly with cold fear. However, maybe I'd learn more about him. Maybe I could learn about why he brought me here and maybe, just maybe, he'd let me go back home. " _No, he wouldn't be able to have his way with you so easily back home,"_ the guarded voice within me whispered. My hope faltered.

And yet, if _that_ were his purpose, why nurture me in my illness? Why send someone to tend to me?

Confused, I shook my head, my curls forming little splashes on the water. I would think no more.

Nathalie had laid out a bar of soap next to the bath. Taking it, I delicately undid the wrapping paper. The scent of fresh-picked roses wafted through the air, and I slowly washed the grime of illness from my body with the delicious, floral scent.

—-—-—-—-—-—

I sat on the edge of my bed, slowly eating the remainder of the chicken and carrot soup Nathalie laid out for me, when a gentle knock rang on the door.

"Come in, Nathalie," I said brightly. I was eager to learn more about her and about this place.

The warmth of the bath and of the soup cleared whatever remaining hold my illness had on me, and I felt almost completely recovered. Cheerful, even, as cheerful as I could be here.

After bathing, I'd once again looked inside the closet of dresses. The closet contained more clothes than I'd ever owned in my whole life. There were fine silks, delicate chiffons, and intricately embroidered gowns. I selected the simplest of the dresses, a dark blue dress made of buttery-soft material and with a gathered waist. It tied in the back with a simple, knotted bow.

Nathalie entered the room. "Whoa," she breathed. "I never imagined it'd be such a lovely fit on you."

"You made these dresses?" I asked, my admiration for them doubling anew.

"Indeed, I did," she said with a proud smile. "I was, after all, a seamstress back in my day. It was so nice being able to do my art again. Here," she said, getting down on one knee in front of me. She retrieved a needle and some thread from her apron, taking the hems of my dress, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration. "You're a bit shorter than I expected," she said by way of explanation.

When she deemed the dress suitable, she stood up, smoothing out her apron. "Turn around", she said, gesticulating the motion. Like a child playing dress up, I turned around.

"There you go. Now you're perfect," she said, beaming. "Come, I shall take you to Monsieur."

She opened the door for me, and for the first time since I'd arrived, I stepped out of my room, eyes wide. I was simply being let out? Of course, I had an escort, but it was nonetheless surprising. Nathalie regarded me with a look of question in her eyes, but said nothing of it. Did she know that I was trapped? Closing the door behind her, I followed her down the hallway and to the staircase.

We walked down the staircase, into the ornate living room. In daylight, it looked especially regal, the sunlight casting brilliant rainbows throughout the room through the crystal chandelier.

A shudder rippled through me at the memory of the Opera Populaire's chandelier.

Nathalie took a right. She was saying something, but the pounding in my ears was such that I could not hear her. With every step we took, the reality that I'd be seeing him again, this unknown man in this unknown place, turned the pit in my stomach to liquidated lead. My light breakfast threatened to make a reappearance.

We reached the end of the hall. "Here we are," Nathalie whispered. She must have read the nervousness on my face, for she squeezed my hand. Such a simple gesture, but I was wound up so tight I nearly burst into tears at the reassurance.

"Don't worry about anything, chérie," she said comfortingly. "If you need anything, I'll be at the other end of the hall in the kitchen." I stood at the front of the door, paralyzed, save for the small nod of my head.

"He'll be excited to see you again," she continued. "He was very worried about you, gone all that first night trying to find that treatment for you."

"Thank you so much, Nathalie," I said, barely above a whisper. My eyes were trained on the crystal doorknob that would lead me to him.

"Of course," she said, and with a last gentle squeeze on my shoulder, she turned and walked down the hallway.

I waited until the sound of her footsteps had faded, and waited another minute to ground myself. I would finally meet the man—yes, the man—behind the spirit of my voice, the man who in essence ran the opera that was my home. I would finally have a chance to ask the questions I've carried with me since all this started.

Inhaling a shaky breath, I knocked gently on the door three times.

"Come in, Christine," the melodic tenor voice beckoned.

And, like the day I first met him at the dressing room mirror, I followed his voice, entranced.

—-—-—-—-—

Thank you for reading! I hope to return to this story once more with regular updates; as fellow writers know, your thoughts and comments are very much appreciated! I hope you are all staying healthy and safe during this time.


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